End of an Era
by TheInvisibleGurlz
Summary: Childhood is a wonderful thing. You only realize this when it's over. Just a small collection Christmas tales from the characters' young perspectives. IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF TWELVE (12) DO NOT READ!
1. Sherlock

**Sherlock**

 **A.N.: For my "Christmas challenge" this year, I'm doing something a bit different than I did with Blushing Bluebirds. This time I'm going to ruin the childhoods of our favorite characters. Sherlock is about six or seven here. I figure he'd find out early. Enjoy!**

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock!" mom gushed. "Let's see what Santa brought you."

I rush downstairs, a big smile on my face, with Redbeard stumbling behind me, tail wagging like a pendulum.

Mycroft, at the chiding of my mother, seems serious on the outside, but I know better. He's just as excited as I am; he's just better at hiding it.

The Christmas bounty was a big one. I got a forensic kit, among other things. I'm so excited; I can't wait to use it!

"Sherlock?" Mycroft blearily calls out as I sneak down to the kitchen. Redbeard doesn't follow me, but he does.

"What are you doing?" he demands to know.

"Just go back to bed. I just want to dust the prints on the wrapping paper," I say as I dig through the trash. Finally locating a piece that was mine, I unbox my package and pull out the finger-printing dust. I examine an area I hadn't touched, but was likely to have a print on it from wrapping, and brushed the powder over it. As explained on the directions, which Mycroft insisted I follow, I transfer the print to a slide and put everything back as I found it. I don't know why, but Mycroft has a sad, worried look on his face.

It's only when I go to place the print next to those of the rest of the family, courtesy of the forensic kit last year, that I begin to understand.

Santa's print matches dad's to a T. Every curve, hump, and swirl is echoed in dad's thumb. Santa never wrapped the present.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," He begins "I'm afraid Santa Claus isn't real. He never was. Mom and Dad buy the toys and put them under the tree."

"Why would they lie about it?" I ask. The world felt so full of hope before, but now I begin to feel it turning bleak. Was this how adults felt all the time?

"To make us feel better. That's what mom said."

I fell to my knees, soon crumpling into a little, wavy-haired ball on the floor. Arms wrap around me. Mycroft is _so_ going to deny this tomorrow.

Right now, however, he holds me tight. Either he really does love me, or mom put something in the hot chocolate. I go with the former.

 **A.N.: If you my little warning in the summary pertained to you, but still ignored it, I'm deeply sorry that you had to learn this from me. Are there any other characters you want to watch get ruined? I'm planning on John being next, but it's all still flexible. Thank you for your time, merry early Christmas, and GOD BLESS!**


	2. John

**John**

 **A.N.: I'm not quite sure about this story, and especially not this chapter; it might be a bit boring and normal. Still, authors do what they want. Enjoy!**

"Goodnight, darling," my mother coos as she tucks me into bed. "Did you enjoy your Christmas?" I nod gratefully. I thought for sure that I would've gotten coal on account of all the swearing the year had brought, but Santa was apparently generous, and thus deemed calling my father "motherf*****" a small fault.

"Um, honey, sit up please. I have something to tell you." Mum has a sad look on her face, now. My eight-year-old self doesn't know why.

"What is it, mum?" My heart sinks.

"Father Christmas…isn't real, love. He's just made up for children. Do you understand, love?"

I nodded. "Harry told me." She didn't. Mum smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She kissed my head and left me alone.

My pillow was wet by mo(u)rning.

 **A.N.: Like I said, I'm not sure about this chapter. What do you think? Moriarty, I'm hoping will be last. Either Molly or Greg, up next. You decide. Thank you for your time, Merry Christmas, and GOD BLESS!**


	3. Jim

**Jim**

 **A.N.: I decided to kill this story early, seeing as there wasn't much of a response on the last few chapters, and it's Christmas Eve, already. I'd also like to preface this chapter that, in my mind, this is not a reason that Moriarty turned out so evil. This is simply his version of the major milestone. Enjoy!**

I fight down an instinctual chuckle as I pointed the camera through the slats in the closet doors. Sally was making fun of me today for talking about Santa. She said he wasn't real; I guess I'll show her.

The grin that I've been wearing for the past several minutes drops from my face when I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. The chimney leads directly into the living room; Saint Nicholas wouldn't need to take the stairs.

Perhaps he opted against the chimney. We'd lit a fire in there in the afternoon, so there might still be some smoky smell left.

"We should tell him," my father's voice says in a whisper. The door slats don't allow me to see him, so instead I angle the camera to see him, better. "Sally Donovan made fun of him, today. He told me, he did. 'I'll show you,' he said to her. 'And then you'll have to kiss me in front of the class, because I'll have won the bet.' He's got no maturity, he hasn't."

"Well, at this point," my mother responds. They're carrying some things: lots of packages, in all different colors. "I'm afraid of what he'll do. You remember how he acted after one of the older kids teased him. Philip, was it?"

"Philip Anderson, yeah. Made him sing on front of the whole class." There's no way. They wouldn't lie – not to me. "There's still no excuse for not knowing the truth. He's 13, now; he should know by now that Santa isn't real."

"Still…"

"Still nothing" dad says with finality, placing the last present beneath the tree. "Tomorrow, we tell him. We tell him we buy the presents, put them there, everything. He should know."

"And then what? What if he-"

"If he freaks out like he did because of Philip, then we take him to a good psychiatrist and see what's what."

Tears are filling my eyes, at this point. They _lied_ to me!

They're heads whip around in shock as I come out of the closet for the second time.

"I'll feckin' kill you for this! You lied to me! I can't believe you, you bolloxses!"

"James!" mom screams, hiding behind dad. I'm just about to do it, but something stops me.

Sounding from the upstairs bedroom is the only Christmas present I value, right now. My sister's crying, probably because she can hear mom screaming. I can't kill them, not when little Jane's still so young. I can just about kill, right now, but I can't raise a child on my own.

I end up making some jerky movements before storming off to bed, scaring Jane even more with the slam of the door.

After several minutes, mom comes upstairs, opening my door and standing in the threshold.

"Get. Away. From me," I command, my threat from earlier still on my voice. Just before she closes the doors, I add, "And you'll never lie to Jane like that. She'll know it's you from the very first – from the first moments she can speak, she'll never have the word Santa on her lips, except to curse him out. _Never_."

Her breath shakes, but she doesn't reply. All she does is close my door and let me alone with my thoughts.

For a while, I consider just taking Jane and leaving, parents be damned. At least she wouldn't be lied to.

No. For all I know she'd turn out like me. It was hardly a secret that I could…overreact a bit. Plus, what if she got sick? It wasn't like two kids could pay for a doctor. What if _I_ got sick? Then she'd be left alone, on the street, at the mercy of the homeless men and women.

As I thought about it, I began to get a sinking feeling in my gut that, on the front of her fragile sanity, anything I did wouldn't matter.

 **A.N.: I'm not a fan of the swearing in this, but it definitely fit the character better. I'm not entirely sure about how I did writing Moriarty's character, let alone as a child. What do you think? Nailed it or failed it? Thank you for your time, merry Christmas, happy New Year, and GOD BLESS!**


End file.
